Sweet Revenge
by Girl Who Writes
Summary: During a drunken night, Mark captures Roger's finest moment on film.


**Title:** Sweet Revenge

**Author:** Girl Who Writes

**Feedback:** is beloved if you feel so inclined.

**Pairing:** all canon couples implied.

**Word Count:** 1 589

**Rating:** PG-M

**Genre:** Humour; verging on crack!fic.

**Summary:** During a drunken night, Mark captures Roger's finest moment on film.

**Notes:** Totally silly :shakes head: I have no idea where this came from. Written for lj's speed rent. Reviews are very much beloved.

**Spoilers:** Movie and musical

**Warnings:** Language

**Disclaimer:** property of the Larsons.

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Later on, no one could really decide whether to blame the alcohol, Collins' joints or that Angel's enthusiasm was infectious. Mark shook his head and blamed the beer and the Stoli, stepping over the bottles rolling around the floor, positively itching to clean up so he could start editing the footage he'd filmed the previous evening.

The victim of this particular incident had not been Mark, as it usually was. There was a cardboard box under his bed filled with reels that were hidden for a reason – they usually focused on a particularly embarrassing incident. Roger's proficiency with his camera only ever appeared when there was Mark in a Humiliating Position to capture for future generations.

Nope, this time Mark had repaid Roger for every drunken song, every declaration of love to complete strangers – possibly even the strip tease in Central Park, but that remained to be seen until he edited the Golden Footage.

The Victim in this particular case was, of course, Roger. Roger who was sprawled out on his own 'bed', completely unconscious and wearing a t shirt that proudly declared 'I'm here, I'm queer, get over it!' in bright, glittery pink letters, and a pair of boxers that were a wee bit small. So small, in fact, Maureen had screamed when he'd emerged the previous evening.

The tableau was completed by the half-empty beer bottle cradled in the crook of Roger's arm. Ahh, the poster boy for Bohemia, Mark thought gleefully as he took the final few minutes of footage that would make the film ideal blackmail material.

The night had started with Mimi and Angel hurling in boxes loaded with clothing, Collins following with Stoli, beer and joints for all. Maureen and Joanne had come armed with pizza and pretzels (and Advil), and somehow the evening's previous planned evening of Drinking Alcohol and Smoking Pot was usurped by Mimi and Angel exploring the contents of the boxes.

"The costume shop closed," Mimi explained gleefully when question. "She was just selling boxes of this stuff on the street." She pulled out a long, white dress that probably had been someone's wedding dress once upon a time.

"How much did you spend on this crap?" Joanne picked something off the top of the pile, promptly realized it was a spangled male thong, and tossed it across the room, where it promptly landed over one of the lampshades (and remained until the following Christmas when Mark and Roger both realized they were out of clean underwear…).

"Eighteen bucks for all of it," Angel said proudly, swapping her black wig for one of long blonde hair and a turquoise beret.

"We'll rip most of it up and make new stuff though," Mimi said as she shimmied a red rah-rah skirt over her jeans.

As the alcohol flowed and the joint was passed from hand to hand (later on, Joanne would only recall Collins' maniacal grin floating before her), the box of 'dress ups' became the source of entertainment for the evening.

"Pookie!" Maureen had found a gold lame evening dress in the box, and stripped in the middle of the room to put it on, which caused both Roger and Mark to choke on their drinks. Roger vowed to down more alcohol to dull the image of an undressed Maureen, and Mark rewound his camera faster. Mimi stumbled against the coffee table and handed Maureen a wig of bright red curls. The combination of gold, red and the purple pom-poms she later unearthed made her blinding to even the strongest alcoholic haze.

It was around the time Collins put on the fairy wings, and Joanne found an out of shape tutu that Angel decided makeovers for everyone would be a good idea, and the reason that, for the following four months, everyone seemed to be peeling dried lipstick chunks off of the bottom of their shoes, socks and feet.

"Come on, Roger!" Angel pleaded as Maureen, Collins and Mimi danced around the room to the mostly-static radio Mark had unearthed and Joanne was trying to unsuccessfully tune. "I want to make you look pretty!"

"I already look pretty! Ask Mimi," Roger said, flicking pretzels at the camera Mark had left on the edge of the coffee table as if the right pretzel could knock the camera to the floor.

"Mimi," Angel whined, plucking the Stoli bottle from Collins' hand. "Tell Roger to let me do his make up."

"Roger!" Mimi pounced on him. "Let Angel make you pretty? She could make you look like a rock star!"

And, as Mark began to brew coffee the next morning, he was pretty sure that was when it got kind of foggy for most of them.

"Oh god," Mimi rolled off of the couch, onto the floor. "What, was I drinking gasoline last night? Oh god."

"Coffee?" Mark chirped in her direction.

"Ugh. Let me die."

"Take your AZT."

"Fuck off." Mimi half stumbled, half dragged herself to the bathroom, and within moments, could be heard vomiting.

"Was-going-on?" Joanne sat up from the chair in the corner. "Oh, god, can you turn off that light?"

"It's the sun, Joanne. The happy, non-electrical alternative to a lamp. Advil?"

"My stomach is trying to crawl up my throat, and you're making jokes?" Joanne buried her face in her hands. "Coffee?"

Mark dutifully poured a mug of coffee for Joanne and brought it over to her. "Also, your pants are in the sink. Nice dress." He chuckled as Joanne began to swear and tug at the long, 50s style skirt she had ended up wearing.

Angel, Maureen and Collins all dragged themselves from various places in the loft with much whining and declarations of imminent death. Mark continued to dole out mugs of coffee, Advil and cold pizza with an uncanny cheer.

When Roger finally stumbled out, still holding his beloved beer bottle and looking very disorientated, he was met with a variety of reactions. Mimi burst into laughter at the sight of his attire; Joanne and Collins exchanged vaguely disgusted looks and looked away; Angel cheerfully ignored Roger's state of indecency and Maureen shrieked about being blinded for life. And Mark cheerfully offered pizza and coffee to his hung-over friend, knowing that the footage was safe in his bedroom, where it would remain until he would reap his revenge. The evil laugh echoed in Mark's mind, and he resisted the urge to laugh evilly out loud.

"Ugh," Joanne tossed the pizza back into the box. "This is disgusting. Does anyone else want to find real food?"

"Tacos," Maureen agreed around a mouthful of pizza.

"Pancakes," Angel breathed.

"A burger," Roger chimed in. "The Life?"

"You guys go ahead, maybe bring me back something," Mark said innocently. "I've got some editing to do."

"How can you not be hung-over, Mark?" Mimi moaned, burying her face in Angel's shoulder.

"Just lucky," Mark shrugged. "And, uh, you might want to put on some real clothes before you venture out on the street, guys."

Much swearing and the exchanging of various bizarre garments for jeans and sweatshirts saw the six tumbling out the door in search of hangover food. And Mark was left to his editing.

The footage was golden, Mark thought gleefully. The only thing that could have made it better was the presence of a goldfish, which was one of the things that scared the proverbial shit out of Roger (as well as fish heads, boning knives and the sight of dead animals before they were processed for him to eat).

The footage took several days to edit, as Mark had to do it when Roger wasn't around to hear his slightly maniacal cackling.

In the end, Mark didn't even have to arrange a viewing of it; he was watching it a final time to make sure it was done, and everyone came tramping in from various locales – Mimi and Roger had been in her apartment doing god-knows what, Angel and Collins had brought a giant bag of bagels and Joanne walked in trailing after Maureen, talking rapidly into a mobile phone.

And the film continued on, everyone taking seats around the projection.

"_I can make myself look like a stock-rar!" Roger shoved Mimi onto the couch next to him, and managed to stand up, before half tumbling towards the bathroom._

"Stock-rar, huh?" Mimi grinned at her boyfriend, who was shooting evil looks in Mark's direction.

"Rock star," Roger muttered, shaking his head. "What, did you film the whole thing?"

"No," Mark said innocently, with a benign smile on his face. "This is sort of a 'Best Of'."

"_Ta-da!" Roger stumbled back into the room, followed by a positively Satanic looking Maureen, wearing a pink mesh tank top and black leather pants that barely came past Roger's knees, eyeliner smeared around his eyes and half his face smeared in glittery, gold face paint._

"What the fuck!"

"Those are girls' pants, Rog."

"Something you want to tell us, Roger?"

"_You need a wig!" Angel jumped down from the coffee table and plucked a Farrah-Fawcett-esque wig from the very bottom of the boxes._

"You're sexiest stock-rar I've ever seen," Joanne said with a completely serious expression on her face as Roger began plotting the most painful ways to dispose of one Mark Cohen.

_Roger stood with Angel and Maureen on the metal table, dancing to the music in their heads, which was leading to a variety of different dance moves. _

"_You know what?" Roger bopped his head along to the music, before stopping and examining his attire. "The electric oink really brings out the definition in my abs, don't you think?"_

"Cohen, you are going to die."

Yup. The footage definitely made up for the strip tease in Central Park.

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End file.
